Selling Beauty: Cosmetics, Commerce, and French Society, 1750–1830

SELLING BEAUTY

THE JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY STUDIES

IN HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SCIENCE

127th Series (2009)

1. Monique O’Connell, Men of Empire: Power and Negotiation

in Venice’s Maritime State

2. Morag Martin, Selling Beauty: Cosmetics, Commerce,

and French Society, 1750–1830

Selling Beauty

Cosmetics, Commerce, and French Society, 1750–1830

MORAG MARTIN

This book has been brought to publication with the generous assistance of the Karl and Edith Pribram Endowment.

© 2009 The Johns Hopkins University Press

All rights reserved. Published 2009

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Martin, Morag.

Selling beauty : cosmetics, commerce, and French society, 1750–1830 / Morag Martin.

p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN-13: 978-0-8018-9309-4 (hardcover : alk. paper)

ISBN-10: 0-8018-9309-7 (hardcover : alk. paper)

1. Cosmetics industry—France—History. I. Title.

HD9970.5.C673F866 2009

381′.4566850944—dc22          2008048621

A catalog record for this book is available from the British Library.

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Introduction

1 The Practices of Beauty: The Creation of a Consumer Market

2 A Market for Beauty: The Production of Cosmetics

3 Advertising Beauty: The Culture of Publicity

4 Maligning Beauty: The Critics Take on Artifice

5 Domesticating Beauty: The Medical Supervision of Women’s Toilette

6 Selling Natural Artifice: Entrepreneurs Redefine the Commerce of Cosmetics

7 Selling the Orient: From the Exotic Harem to Napoleon’s Colonial Enterprise

8 Selling Masculinity: The Commercial Competition over Men’s Hair

Conclusion

Notes

Bibliography

Index

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book would not have been possible without the help of a large number of people. I am grateful to my dissertation advisor Tim Tackett at the University of California, Irvine, who provided a supportive and critical eye. I would like to gratefully acknowledge my debt to Colin Jones for inspiring the topic and then following me through to the end. Maxine Berg provided me with a research space and postdoctoral fellowship at the University of Warwick Eighteenth Century Centre. The Leverhulme Fund Special Research Fellowship helped me finish old strands of research and open new ones on the history of masculinity. Since 2000, the History Department at The College at Brockport, State University of New York, has been a highly welcoming and supportive environment for both a first job and writing my manuscript.

Thanks to colleagues who have helped me by reading my work, listening to my arguments, or giving me advice: Mary Salzman, Hazel Hahn, Peggy Waller, Cathy McClive, Dena Goodman, Tim Hitchcock, Natasha Coquery, Liliane Hilaire-Pérez, Catherine Lanoë, Caroline Fontaine, Katie Scott, Claire Walsh, Elizabeth Eger, Melissa Hyde, Melissa Percival, Michael Kwass, Robin Walz, Mary Gayne, Jenny Lloyd, Greta Niu, Carolyn Johnston, Lynn Sharp, Michael Lynn, Jem Axelrod, Christopher Forth, and David Kuchta. I would like to acknowledge especially the friendship and advice of Jean Pedersen, Rebecca Earle, and Yuki Takagaki.

My research trips to France would not have been possible without the support of family, friends, and institutions. Claudy Toche, Jean-Noel Sanson, Marie-Pierre Sanson, Karine Sarant, Lynn Sharp, and Marie-Paule Deslandes gave me their hospitality. My thanks to the Musée internationale du parfum and the Musée Fragonard in Grasse for allowing me access to their collections. I am also especially grateful to the archivists at the Archives de Paris, the Academie de médecine, the Chambre de commerce et d’industrie de Paris, and Valérie Marchal at the Institut national de la propriété industrielle.

In the final stages, Eleanore Dugan did an invaluable read-through of the whole manuscript; my father sharpened my writing, while my mother corrected my French. I picked the Johns Hopkins University Press because I had been told Henry Tom was a wonderful editor to be rejected by, furnishing useful advice for revision and alternate presses. He has proved to be an exceptional editor to be published by, along with the rest of the staff at the Press, especially Suzanne Flinchbaugh and Andre Barnett.

Part of chapter 4 and the conclusion were originally published as Casanova and Mlle Clairon: Painting the Face in a World of Natural Fashion, Fashion Theory Journal 7, no. 1 (March 2003): 57–78. Chapter 5 was in part published as "Doctoring Beauty: The Medical Control of Women’s Toilettes in France, 1750–1820," Medical History 49 (Spring 2005): 351–68. A much shorter version of chapter seven appeared as French Harems: Images of the Orient in Cosmetic Advertisements, 1750–1815, The Proceedings of the Western Society for French History 31 (2003): 125–37.

Finally, for their constant support, I thank Carl Almer, Beatrix Almer Martin, and Rosalia Almer Martin. This book is dedicated to them.

SELLING BEAUTY

INTRODUCTION

France has the well-earned reputation of being a center of luxury and fashion. Historians looking for the roots of high fashion have found key starting points during Louis XIV’s reign in the seventeenth century and in Marie Antoinette’s personal proclivities at the end of the eighteenth.¹ Despite this long history of luxurious excess, France is also the home of the radical revolutionary ethos; extremist Jacobins tried in the 1790s to destroy all representations of the frivolous Old Regime. The period from 1750 to 1830 that this book covers is one of disjuncture and change in the representation of France, fashion, gender roles, and ideals of beauty. This period starts with the extremes of Louis XV’s court and ends with the simpler styles of respectable femininity during the Restoration. Court aristocrats in the 1750s wore thick layers of paint and rouge, while their Romantic counterparts wished to be naturally pale. Yet, despite this radical shift in fashion away from visible artifice, in the same period, French beauty culture transformed itself from an aristocratic luxury to a strong and vibrant sector of the economy.

The eighteenth century was first a century of artifice in court and in elite circles. From the reign of Louis XIV came lavish wigs and codes of dress. Louis XV’s court was more frivolous; women’s colorful silks grew in width, and men’s wigs were powdered. Under Louis XVI, hair grew taller for women, while men luxuriated in flouncy sleeves. By the 1780s, the ideals of the Enlightenment reversed these trends, pushing fashion toward simpler dress touched by nature, illustrated by Marie Antoinette’s Hameau at Versailles and Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun’s portraits of mothers and children. During the Revolution, honest self-presentation became essential to join the fraternity of citizens. With republicanism came the increased demarcation of fashion as a feminine and private pastime. Men were expelled from the toilette, adopting instead British-styled suits that presaged the development of the modern three-piece suit. The Revolution politicized fashion and emphasized transparency of presentation, while the Directory and Empire literally exposed women’s bodies in see-through white sheaths to evoke antiquity.²

Focusing more specifically on the history of cosmetics, scholars have stressed the ways in which the use of face paint paralleled changes in the general use of fashion. Makeup gained great acceptance by the middle of the century, and then its popularity started to decline. The stark white skin, brilliant red cheeks, and black silk patches of Versailles were replaced by naturally flushed skin and an open, honest countenance free of artifice. By the 1760s, the use of makeup by men was on the decline, and by the 1780s, women outside the court eschewed rouge and turned to antiquity for their models of beauty. During the Revolution, natural fashions triumphed, and even afterward, cosmetics did not return to their Old Regime prominence.³ The nineteenth century is often described as the century of repression, pallid faces, and respectability. Most historians of cosmetics have assumed that this was the end for makeup—leaving only actresses and prostitutes to wear rouge—until its slow rehabilitation in the twentieth century due to industrialization and mass marketing.⁴

While the downfall of paint is a compelling story, which fits well with the history of fashion, this book suggests that it is a superficial one. I focus not only on the anecdotes of elite use and the admonitions of journalists and advice writers but also on a broad range of archival sources and marketing tools to uncover the development of a complex and expanding beauty culture. Contrary to expectations and despite an onslaught of criticisms of artifice, the commerce of cosmetics expanded and prospered in the late eighteenth century, during the Revolutionary period, and into the nineteenth century, becoming, with the perfume industry, a key component in the world’s conception of frenchness. I trace how cosmetics, at one time a typically aristocratic commodity, maintained their popularity among both male and female shoppers once taken up by ordinary people. To survive commercially, sellers repositioned what had been ostentatious elite products as purchases consistent with Enlightenment values. By validating their goods in a highly volatile market, sellers shifted the debate about beauty and artifice into the realm of commerce. Though makeup disappeared from public view by the Revolution, in France, it would remain a private and necessary part of many women’s toilettes.

This book expands our conception of beauty products into the ranks of the urban populace, both as consumers and producers. I focus on three main groups of sources: (1) newspaper advertisements for cosmetics, which first appeared in the 1750s; (2) beauty manuals and medical treatises that provided recipes and advice; and (3) stories, poems, and anecdotes about beauty found in popular journalism and tracts. These three sets of often overlapping sources contain conflicting voices, all hoping to control the definition of beauty, femininity, and respectability. One group hoped to sell more makeup (the producers), one to control its uses (the medical practitioners), and the third to end all use of artifice by both men and women (the critics). While the voices of criticism were the loudest and most strident, this is a history of how the voices of compromise, promotion, and marketing made it possible for consumers to continue to buy and to use cosmetics despite a radical shift in the aesthetic criteria for beauty.

The study of cosmetics within the realm of fashion touches on a number of historiographies. The now well-accepted notion of a consumer revolution is at its center, along with the debate over why it occurred. My work intersects with the history of guilds and proto-luxury production. Central to these commercial concerns is the study of French systems of publicity and marketing. The history of cosmetics is also part of the history of fashion and luxury that has flourished in recent years. As a product that became increasingly associated with women, cosmetics are part of the larger shift in definitions of gender roles. My work, however, does not leave out the roles of men, joining a newer focus on the history of masculinity. Finally, and just as important, since cosmetics were a subset of medicines and were partially controlled by the medical profession, the history of the professionalization of medicine is part of its larger framework. What all these strands of historiography add up to is an investigation of how fashion changes, as radical as the shift away from ostentatious luxury to simple, natural styles, shaped and interacted with the commercial marketplace.

Neil McKendrick uncovered a revolution in English buying happening alongside the early Industrial Revolution. Studies of France point to a similar growth of purchasing that occurred not with industrialization but within the traditional artisanal and small-scale production of the Old Regime. Daniel Roche points to increases in the purchase of nonessential goods by Parisian servants and artisans. In her study of probate inventories, Annik Pardailhé-Galabrun finds a substantial number of pictures, wall-hangings, and mirrors in Parisian working-class homes by the end of the century. Cissie Fairchild’s work supports both these studies by uncovering the development of a market for what she calls populuxe goods, cheap copies of luxury goods aimed at the urban working classes. Though beauty products do not show up in probate inventories because they are perishable and cheap, other sources point to an increase in the ownership of cosmetics. Unlike fancy silks and towering head-dresses, a pot of rouge was affordable for a seamstress or maidservant.⁵

The consumer revolution has to be further investigated not just in terms of growth of consumer demand but through changes in production and methods of sale. My work investigates a breadth of products, from expensive luxury items, solely for the elite, to cheaper versions for broader commerce. Because they were easy to make and to transport, cosmetics were the ideal populuxe product. More than most artisans, however, makers of cosmetics were in a liminal, uncontrolled commercial space that allowed them to experiment with new techniques of production and selling. This work complements that of other historians who have uncovered thriving artisanal production of populuxe goods in a preindustrial context. Clare Crowston focuses on the seamstresses’ guild, an all-female group, that similarly to cosmetics producers, helped shape patterns of consumption and definitions of femininity and fashion. Carolyn Sargenston’s study of the elite guild of mercers uncovers the intricacy of the luxury trade market, linking tradespeople, entrepreneurs, and elite buyers in unorthodox ways. I am most indebted to Natacha Coquery, who has brought to light the complex market for luxury goods that resided between aristocratic house and public street corner. Her work illustrates how the budding consumer market existed alongside more traditional means of sale, such as barter and credit.⁶ The work of Catherine Lanoë on a broader history of cosmetics and production methods most closely complements mine. I was not, however, able to integrate her recent book, La poudre et le fard: Une histoire des cosmétiques de la Renaissance aux Lumières into this work.⁷

Despite being firmly based in traditional means of production, the late eighteenth century was a period that promised invention and novelty, especially in the realm of beauty aids. Innovation was a main means for justifying new products, new fashions, and increased sales in the public marketplace. Marketing methods have been studied in detail for England: McKendrick’s study of advertising illuminates a complex system of sales and promotion.⁸ Few historians have taken French advertising systems as seriously. The French press was smaller, more regulated, and the guilds limited other forms of advertising. Historians of advertising have labeled French publicity as backward and strictly textual information, compared with the more complex selling mechanisms used in eighteenth-century England.⁹ Colin Jones, however, opened up a new field of inquiry in his article on medical advertisements. He links the expansionist, bourgeois, commercial language of advertisements to the creation of a civically minded consumerism that would play a key role in the Revolution.¹⁰ My work expands on Jones’s research to focus more closely on methods of publicity by one set of sellers over a larger span of time. I do not claim that advertisers shaped the Revolution but rather that their campaigns helped shape commercial practices and consumer values. Advertising was central to creating the market that made the consumer revolution possible. Though most historians place the development of publicity campaigns in the nineteenth century, my study indicates that a culture of advertising developed earlier.

The worlds of production, shopping, and marketing encompassed an increasingly diverse set of buyers in a complex system of fashion and commerce. Until recently, historians explained this growth in consumer buying by using emulation theory, first posited by Thorstein Veblen.¹¹ The lower classes wanted to imitate their betters or, more threatening, aspired to pass for the aristocracy by donning their clothing and makeup. More recent historians have questioned the centrality of this explanation, arguing that there were many other overlapping reasons for the lesser orders to adopt proto-luxuries, not the least of which was the distinction between groups and ranks, as well as personal reasons such as pleasure, creation of legacy, and desire for novelty promoted through advertising and marketing techniques.¹² The growth of individualism and the democratization of taste before and during the Revolution allowed for larger numbers to participate openly in the processes of fashion and consumerism. Cosmetics were the ideal object of personal desire while fulfilling a number of social expectations. One pot of rouge could be bought by a shopgirl to seduce her lover, impersonate her betters, and gossip with her peers about new purchases.

Though emulation likely played a role in the consumer’s choices, it is unlikely that many shopgirls could pass as duchesses. Nonetheless, the increased purchases by the lower orders led to fears among the elite of social upheaval and to intense criticism of luxury consumption.¹³ Sara Maza attributes the "panic and outrage about le luxe to both this increased consumerism and the effects of the desacralization of the French monarchy, which left the French with no central arbiter of rank.¹⁴ Still wishing to justify their positions of power, the aristocracy turned to newer, more extreme forms of fashion to create distinctions between themselves and those below.¹⁵ Greater luxury led to increased attacks against it. John Shovlin argues that in the late eighteenth century … a luxury discourse that for centuries had been pro-noble shifted to being anti-aristocratic."¹⁶ Attacks against the spendthrift aristocracy shifted the tenor of consumerism from the constant differentiation of the elite to avoid emulation to the creation of a new group of respectable elite whose taste could not be copied. The new elite defined themselves in opposition to both the aristocrats above them and the rabble below.

The meaning of luxury was redefined to justify this new social group of moral elites.¹⁷ Though some commentators still argued against all forms of luxury, increasingly Enlightenment philosophes justified luxury by making a distinction between ostentatious luxury (luxe de magnificence) and pragmatic luxury (luxe de commodité), within which comfort could be accommodated without tying it to aristocratic indulgence.¹⁸ This ideal of pragmatic luxury was highly politicized by Enlightenment thinkers. The new definition of fashion based on good taste allowed the elite to justify their positions of power and gave philosophes the ostensibly fairer political sphere they sought. Though couched in the language of truth and universality, this system of transparent social relations reinforced the traditional hierarchy while admitting bankers, lawyers, and philosophes into the salons of the aristocracy. Attacks against cosmetics as a mask for the face were central to creating the new society. Cosmetics, or lack thereof, allowed a visible means of proving differences between upper and middling ranks, between court and city, between domestic and public spaces, between prostitutes and virtuous ladies.¹⁹ If commodities stood for their owner’s values, within the cultural context, then the rejection of cosmetics was central to the new citizen of France in the late Old Regime and into the Revolution.

This purer face was meant to disassociate the new elite from the old aristocracy. At the same time, critics of artifice defined luxuries and fashion as feminine, and thus frivolous and possibly even pernicious, pastimes.²⁰ What had been the flaws of the elite became those of women. Women were accused of uncontrolled buying that could lead to bankruptcy for their husbands and disgrace of the family name. Patricia Phillippy argues that cosmetics were a way for men to control women within masculine standards for feminine beauty, virtue and vice in the early modern period.²¹ Men hoped that in redefining fashion they could discipline women’s uses of artifice and their roles in society. Eighteenth-century literature on natural beauty reinforced the feminine private sphere as the only respectable place for the newly simplified fashion. In contrast, men were to give up the trappings of fashion, leaving their wives and daughters to signify their financial and social success through their clothing and leisure.²²

Despite the feminization of fashion and beauty, practices of both men and women were slower to change. Amanda Vickery argues that, even though women shopped more for fashion and luxuries, this was not a degrading pastime. Other historians of fashion have found that the simplification of men’s fashion did not occur until the Napoleonic period or later, and certain goods such as wigs, fancy waistcoats, and furniture remained masculine commodities.²³ Notwithstanding claims by J. C. Flügel that a masculine renunciation of fashion and beauty occurred in the late eighteenth century, many men continued to participate in the pleasures of the toilette and vanity. Men may no longer have worn wigs and rouge, but the expectations of masculinity still demanded subtle uses of cosmetics and hidden ministrations. Men were an important part of the marketing of fashion well into the nineteenth century.

For men to still wear cosmetics and for women to primp, beauty products had to be disassociated from the old system of rank. Michael Kwass argues that instead of reproducing aristocratic luxury, late eighteenth-century taste masters (self-proclaimed experts who defined what was in fashion) relied on images of convenience, natural authenticity, and self-expression—to mediate the relationship between consumption and status.²⁴ These ideals helped redefine goods while marking consumers as educated, enlightened, and modern. Yet, in the world of cosmetics, different taste masters battled one another to give meaning to these values. Critics of luxury and, thus, cosmetics were large in number and loud in their disapproval, promoting new natural aids to beauty. Another key group, professional physicians, defined itself as the sole authority over the private health, habits, and purchases of women and families based on their scientific credentials. Both of these groups attempted to discipline women within their own framework of acceptable natural beauty. A third group of taste masters, producers and sellers of beauty aids, however, both built on the arguments of these critics and hoped to supersede and invalidate them. Sellers of beauty adopted the language of science, Enlightenment, and respectability, but their goal was not to discipline (primarily female) buyers but to offer personal pleasure and satisfaction.

The desire for beautification made cosmetics an important part of individual quests for pleasure and novelty. Cosmetics were as much about gaining the attention of a loved one as social acceptance. Even if the limits to makeup and its uses were defined and controlled by male viewers, female wearers could construct their own faces in the privacy of their toilettes. Sociologist Colin Campbell argues that increased consumerism was a function of the romantic ethos, encouraging individuals into personal, imaginative pleasures created by shopping. Material pleasures, for Kwass, are more important than emulation in explaining the consumer revolution. Expanding the focus of consumerism to world trade, Maxine Berg focuses on the importance of novelty to explain why consumerism spread.²⁵ Novelty and desire motivated fashions that were made exotic by the spread of goods from Asia and the Americas, such as chocolate, tea, and porcelain. Cosmetics were the ideal novelty product because they were fairly cheap, disposable, and could evoke exotic locales by their names and properties.

Though critics called for an end to all artifice and doctors tried to rein in its uses, sellers helped create a space in which the commerce of cosmetics could thrive. On the one hand, sellers promoted their goods as luxuries, replete with values of seduction and exoticism linked to the elite. On the other, they also associated their goods with purity, regeneration, naturalness, and healthfulness. The market for cosmetics expanded because taste masters combined desire and respectability into one very appealing package. They gave choices within the complex system of male and female roles consumers had to navigate. Because of the flexibility in their marketing means, once the products left the store shelves, consumers did not need to adhere strictly to one set of uses. Makeup could be used to distinguish between groups, cross social lines, or simply to bring personal pleasure to both men and women.

This book is divided into three main parts. Chapters 1, 2, and 3 cover the consumption, production, and advertising of cosmetics at the end of the eighteenth century. Chapters 4 and 5 investigate the growing criticisms of cosmetics that occurred alongside and because of the growth in consumer availability from the point of view of aesthetics, morality, and medical science. In chapters 6, 7, and 8, I examine how producers and sellers of cosmetics attempted to be the key taste masters for the redefinition of beauty. The basic question for this section is how those whose livelihoods depended on selling beauty aids responded to a radical shift in fashion that threatened their products.

In chapter 1, I investigate the consumer revolution in the purchase of cosmetics, specifically in Paris. I first provide a short history of makeup, and I then trace types of cosmetics and their main uses at their height of popularity in the 1750s and 1760s. Depending primarily on advice manuals, recipe books, and account books of perfumers, I look at the shift from homemade to store-bought concoctions. I determine who made and bought cosmetics as the century progressed. I find an increase in purchases by servants and artisans, as well as a growing mix of male and female buyers. Finally, I use visual sources to investigate how cosmetics were worn on the face.

This expansion of consumerism was matched by developments in the structure of production and sales, discussed in chapter 2. Cosmetics were made and sold by the traditional system of guilds (primarily perfumers) as well as entrepreneurial outsiders. Cosmetic sellers were a diverse and rapidly changing group. Since many products defined as beauty aids were not linked to any one guild, their sellers could function in ambiguous spaces and adopt means of sale that challenged the guilds. I focus on the case of Antoine Claude Maille, maker of cosmetic vinegars, who, while tied to Old Regime systems of production, experimented with new methods of sales. Maille, and other beauty sellers, was among the first to build up brand names and loyalty in a national and even international arena. Despite this success story, those in the beauty business faced bankruptcy, like many trades, and economic difficulties, especially during the Revolution. By the beginning of the nineteenth century, a consolidated group of manufacturers had adapted to the changing market, ready to take on the industrial challenges to come.

One of the most innovative marketing developments of the eighteenth century was advertising. And, one of the most prolific groups of advertisers were makers of beauty products. Using a large database of newspaper advertisements, chapter 3 outlines a series of innovative marketing ploys used by these sellers, from guarantees to fixed prices, all of which were new to the second half of the eighteenth century. These advertisements created for their audience a language for commercial exchange. Advertisers (in a multitude of venues and formats) conjured up for their audience of buyers commodities that were both desirable and within reach.

In chapter 4, I trace the principal arguments against cosmetics found in tracts, journals, novels, poems, and memoirs. I survey the growing and virulent criticisms of cosmetics, not just from the works of well-known philosophes but also from popular journalism and anonymous sources. Despite many of these criticisms dating to the medieval period or Renaissance, their growing number and their tone were a key part of the Enlightenment attack on elite luxury. Critics attacked cosmetics as deceptive, turning women into monsters and men into women. The aesthetic falsity of artifice caused those who wore it to fall into lives of immorality and corruption. The solution to these ills was a return to the natural. The cult of the shepherdess and Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s depictions of unselfconscious young girls helped reinforce the new elite and their rejection of aristocratic values.

In the push for simpler fashion and better hygiene, the dangers of arsenic, lead, and mercury lurking in the jars of paint became the primary arguments against the use of artifice. In chapter 5, I investigate the role of doctors as advisors to the toilette. I look at advice manuals written by physicians as well as the files of the Société royale de médecine which oversaw the issuing of patents for cosmetics. Doctors advocated new ideals of health without the use of paint.²⁶ Yet the medicalization of the toilette did not always have the intended effect. Unwilling to place moral issues above scientific truth, doctors often publicly approved of products they found to be safe through empirical analysis. In doing so, they succeeded in retaining control over the judging of cosmetics, but increasingly their testimonials justified the continued use of beauty aids by women who trusted their judgment.

In chapter 6, I look at how products seen as artificial, aristocratic, and destructive were redefined as natural, pure, and beneficial in public journals and advertisements. I focus on three main examples. First, I look at the adoption of medical language and patents (discussed in chapter 5) by advertisers. Second, I turn to the promotion of makeup as an enhancement of nature, focusing specifically on rouge. Both of these tactics responded directly to accusations often leveled at cosmetics in the same journals. Third, I turn to entrepreneurs who attempted